A man loomed out of the dark, making them jump. 'This way,' he said, leading them to the lorry at the end of the line. 'In the back,' he ordered, offering Effi a hand up and briefly illuminating the inside with a flashlight. Large crates took up most of the space, but a passage had been left between them. Effi and Russell ensconced themselves at the far end, and listened as their helpers shifted crates across the opening. 'It's like being a child again,' Effi murmured, mostly to herself. The sense of being completely dependent on others was almost comforting.
The back doors slammed, and a few moments later the engine sprang to life. They moved off, bumping their way across what felt like tracks before finding the smoothness of a real road. From what Russell remembered of Stettin's geography, he guessed they were somewhere to the south and east of the city's centre, close to the main dock area. Where they were going he had no idea, but the journey seemed to take forever, and when the doors were finally opened the grey light of dawn flooded their hiding place. The crates, Russell saw, each contained a single huge glass bottle of some chemical or other.
They climbed down onto a street of working-class apartment blocks and small industrial premises. Lights were showing in some windows, as the occupants got ready for the day ahead. 'Where are we?' Russell asked the driver, who now had a partner in tow, a younger man with pockmarked cheeks.
'Bredow. You know where that is?'
'To the north of the city?'
'That's right. Kurt will take you in. And good luck,' he added over his shoulder as he headed for his cab.
'This way,' the young man told them, heading for the entrance to the nearest block. 'It's the top floor,' he added, almost apologetically.
They twice met men coming down, but neither paid them much attention, and their companion seemed unworried by the fact that they'd been seen. Was the whole block dependable, Russell wondered. He sincerely hoped so.
On reaching the top floor, the young man led them to the right and knocked softly on the nearest door. A woman opened it, beckoned them in, and introduced herself as Margarete Otting. She was about forty-five, with a tired face and short blonde hair. 'We're both working Sunday shifts, and my husband has already left,' she said. 'And I am late. Please make yourselves at home. We shall be back soon after four.'
'Thank you for…' Effi started to say, but Frau Otting was already halfway through the door. 'I must go too,' Kurt told them. 'Someone will come to see you this evening, after Margarete and Hans return from work. In the meantime, please don't go out, and make as little noise as possible.' The door closed behind him, leaving Russell and Effi to share a look of surprise.
They explored the apartment. It was not much bigger than the one on Prinz-Eugen-Strasse, with a small book-lined sitting room and two bedrooms, one of which clearly belonged to Margarete and Hans. The other had twin beds, and showed traces of adolescent occupation. A photograph in the sitting room showed a happier-looking Margarete sitting beside an impishly-smiling Hans, with two serious-looking young men in army uniform standing behind them. The books that lined the walls were a mixture of detective novels and European history, with one thinned-out shelf of philosophy and political theory. Glancing along the latter, Russell reached the conclusion that all the Marxist tomes had been removed.
Effi was standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. 'I guess we can lie down in the boys' room,' she said. Hans Otting arrived home first, and seemed almost over-pleased to meet them. He was one of those truly generous people, Russell realised, with all the joy and heartache that implied for his more practical wife. They were, as Effi put it later, like a goyish version of the Blumenthals. He worked in the docks as a stevedore, she on the local trams, and their one surviving son was serving with Rommel in North Africa. The elder boy had been killed in Russia the previous July.
Margarete Otting seemed more worried by their presence than her husband, but was careful to show no obvious signs of resentment. She was clearly delighted by the food they had brought from Berlin, and with the large supply of ration tickets which they would probably be leaving behind. The Gestapo might descend on her flat, but she wouldn't starve.
The four of them had just finished eating when the promised visitor arrived. A short, bald, tough-looking character in his fifties, and clearly an old comrade of the Ottings, he asked after their son in Africa before introducing himself to Russell and Effi. 'I am Ernst,' he said, 'and I am in charge of the arrangements for your… I suppose "escape" is the only word that really fits.' He offered them both a smile, which Russell wanted to find more convincing. 'The plan is to get you aboard a ship for Sweden. An iron ore ship. There's one due to dock on Wednesday evening – it will be unloaded during the next day and then leave as soon after dark as possible. Now the authorities watch these boats very carefully in the hours before sailing, but hardly at all before that, so we plan to get you aboard and well hidden on Wednesday evening. Do you understand?'
'Of course,' Russell said, his hopes rising.
'The voyage will take about forty hours,' Ernst said. 'You should reach Oxelosund on Friday morning. Someone from the Stockholm embassy will meet you there, and take charge of the documents you are carrying. ' The next two days seemed replete with more than the usual number of hours. During the day they had the apartment to themselves, and read until their eyes could no longer cope with the inadequate light. There was no radio, but Russell scoured the morning paper, which Hans brought back each evening, for news of themselves and the war's progress. The same pictures of him and Effi were repeated, but the accompanying words had shrunk to a simple demand that any sighting be immediately reported. Hans seemed almost amused by it all, but his wife, staring at the offending photographs, looked almost stunned, and Effi found herself praying that the Ottings would not suffer for their generosity.
After Russell had mentioned in passing how unused he was to staying indoors all day, Hans took him and Effi down the corridor, through an unmarked door, and up a single flight of stairs to the roof, where a host of washing lines were waiting for better weather. The smell of the sea, thirty kilometres to the north, was faint but unmistakable.
An almost full moon was rising in the east, bathing the city and its river in pale light, and after Hans went back down the two of them stayed out in the bitter cold for as long as they could endure it, taking in what might be their last real sight of Germany.
'What are we going to do when we get to Sweden?' Effi asked, snuggling up against him. 'Are we going to England or America?'
'It may take some time to get to either,' Russell told her. 'I suppose Sweden's still trading with the outside world, but I've no idea whether there are any ships to Britain or the States. We may have to stay in Sweden for the duration.'
'I could cope with that. In a way it would be nice – we'd still be close to our family and our friends. Or at least not too far away.'
Wednesday was another long wait. They were unlikely to meet anyone between flat and docks, but Effi applied their make-up with great care, determined that nothing should be left to even the slightest chance. By the time she had finished, their supply was almost gone, but it seemed unlikely they would need any more – once they left the flat, either the ship or the Gestapo would be taking them away, and there would be no need of disguises in either Sweden or a concentration camp.
So went the theory. Margarete and Hans had been home only a few minutes when a tap on the door announced the arrival of Ernst. Bad news was written across his face. 'The ship has been sunk,' he said without preamble.
'By whom?' Effi asked, surprise and indignation in her voice.
'A Soviet submarine,' Ernst told her. 'We should rejoice of course.'
'Of course,' Russell agreed dryly. He supposed they should: there was no reason why his and Effi's war with the Nazis should take precedence over everyone else's.
'I hope the crew got off,' Hans said.
'Oh, of course,' Effi agreed, momentarily ashamed that she'd only been thinking of herself.
'So what happens now?' Russell asked Ernst. As the news sank in, he could feel the stirrings of panic. The Germans had one of their all-engrossing words for it – torschlusspanik, the burst of terror that accompanies a closing door.
'I don't know,' Ernst was saying. 'There will be other ships, of course. For the moment, you must stay here,' he added, looking at Hans and Margarete as he did so.
'Of course,' Hans agreed, and his wife nodded her acceptance of the fact. But she didn't look thrilled at the prospect, and who could blame her?
Later that night, as she tried to fall asleep, Effi imagined herself on a torpedoed ship, the screams of the wounded, the lurching deck, the cold immensity of the dark sea. The sailors from the sunken ship – were they German or Swedish? – were probably out there still, desperately trying to keep warm as their lifeboats bobbed in the chilling Baltic swell. Why, she wondered for the umpteenth time, would anyone sane start a war? It was only seven-thirty, and still completely dark, when they heard the knock on the door. The softness of the knock boded well – the Gestapo had a propensity to hammer – and Russell allowed himself the absurd hope that their ship had not been sunk after all. He left their room to find Hans admitting Ernst.
Though clearly out of breath from climbing ten flights of the stairs, the comrade's first priority was a cigarette. 'More bad news,' he told them tersely through a cloud of smoke. 'There have been arrests in Berlin. Many comrades. Twenty at least. And one of them -' he looked at Russell and Effi '- is the man who sent you here.'
'What happened?' Hans wanted to know.
Ernst shrugged. 'We don't know. A traitor, I expect. It usually is. But these two will have to be moved. Tonight, after dark. They should be all right until then.'
Which meant, Russell thought, that the arrests had probably happened the previous evening, and that those arrested were expected to hold out until the same time today, to endure a minimum of twenty-four hours' suffering before coughing up the first name. The guard on the train, he thought. The next link in the chain. He remembered the collapsing wooden bridge in an adventure movie he had seen with Paul, the hero racing to cross the chasm as the trestles collapsed behind him.
Margarete was looking deathly pale.
'If we see their cars in the street,' Russell told her, 'we'll get out of the apartment. Onto the roof. They won't know where we came from.'
She gave him a look of disbelief, as if unable to comprehend such naivety.
'You'll get plenty of warning,' Ernst confirmed. 'They only ever come up here in force. But I don't think it'll be today.'
'Where are we going this evening?' Effi asked him.
'I don't know yet. All I know is Moscow wants you out, and I'll do my best to oblige them. Someone will be here after dark.'
After indicating to Hans that he wanted a private word with Ernst, Russell followed the Party man out into the stairwell. 'Can you get me a gun?' he asked. He wasn't at all sure he would use one, but it would be nice to have the option. 'I don't want them to take us alive,' he said in response to the other man's hesitation. He found it hard to imagine sharing a suicide pact with Effi, but he knew that Ernst would like the idea – dead people stayed silent for a lot longer than twenty-four hours. 'I'll see what I can do,' Ernst told him. The sitting room window faced south, overlooking the street below and offering a panoramic view of central Stettin. They shared the watch, dreading the sound of approaching motors yet perversely eager for any relief from the tension and boredom. When he told Effi about his request for a gun, she looked blank for a moment and then simply nodded, as if accepting that some point of no return had finally been passed.
'But could you hit anything with it?' she asked after a while.
'I'm actually a pretty good shot,' he retorted. 'Or at least I was in 1918.'
The sky was overcast, but they could tell from the fast-vanishing snow that the temperature was rising, and when the clouds opened later that afternoon it was rain mixed with sleet that obscured their distant view of the city. As the hours went by, Russell found it hard not to dwell on unwelcome outcomes, both for them and their hosts. He hated the idea of the Ottings paying with their lives for a few days' hospitality, but there was nothing he could do about it. If he and Effi disappeared at that moment there would still be the men who had brought them from the goods yard to the flat. They were the last link in the chain from Berlin, and the Ottings' only real chance was for those two men to either escape the clutches of the Gestapo or die in the attempt.
Darkness finally began to fall, and soon after five Margarete returned home. She was clearly upset to find them still there, and suddenly burst into tears when Effi offered to help with the cooking. 'I'm sorry,' she said eventually. 'It's not your fault. I keep thinking of my son in Africa, and him coming home to find he has no family.'
Effi encased her in a hug. 'We're sorry,' she said. 'We…'
'You are just trying to survive,' Margarete interrupted her. 'I know that. And I hope you get out. I really do.'